By A.E. Bayne
A doorway; the fee: my time. I have yet to look into the room; rather, I am leaning here to take a rest, a short break in what might otherwise be an ordinary day, one where I have woken up and my son is playing video games on the living room television and the sink is full of dishes because I was too lazy to do them.
My hand is pressed against the door jam with a forefinger trailing the rib-like grooves in one unforgiving knot. I am leaning heavily, unwilling to see what waits inside the room. For some, this could be the entrance to Valhalla, to Avalon; for me, the room beyond is nothing more than a despot's unholy pupil into which I dare not stare.
I feel for the light switch, palm the light plate with the quick confidence of a lover cupping a woman’s stiff nipple, and swing the switch. A sigh escapes my lips. Nothing stirs in the room.
There are cards strewn loosely upon the floor in a prism of color. “UNO!” she had cried. Here and there, clothes had once fallen from her limbs onto the rug, strewn like autumn leaves awaiting a rake. Following each angle of the room up the lines of longitude, my eyes graze the horizontal surface of her bed, the buttercup spread tossed lightly up to the pillows. She had not been there for days; but then, I had already known that to be the case.
